


Dandelion, Dandelion

by ecmwr



Series: Florets [2]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Multi, Snorkmaiden goes on an adventure, Snorkmaiden-centric, Tags to be added, but it's not the main course, there's Snufmin here too mind you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecmwr/pseuds/ecmwr
Summary: 'This won’t be so bad,' she told herself, quelling a sudden feeling of guilt. 'Surely, they won’t miss me so badly, even if I’m gone for quite some time.' The suitcase weighed on her enthusiasm, for more reasons than one—she didn’t want to leave, not really. After all, she had a family, here. Wasn’t that enough?Shouldn’t it be?Snorkmaiden leaves Moominvalley. The world outside isn't at all how she remembers it.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Snorkmaiden/Character Development
Series: Florets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825237
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	1. When I take you to the Valley

**Author's Note:**

> _When I take you to the Valley, you’ll see the blue hills on the left and the blue hills on the right, the rainbow and the vineyards under the rainbow late in the rainy season._
> 
> _And maybe you’ll say, “There it is, that’s it!”_
> 
> _But I’ll say. “A little farther.”_
> 
> -Ursula K. Le Guin

One morning, a warm breeze came to Moominvalley.

It drifted down from the top of the mountains, rustling the trees and the grass in its sedate wake. It whispered good tidings to the creatures of the forest and carried odd white wisps of summer dandelion to land where they would. It carried bees homeward on its gentle hand, and ruffled the wide green hat of a mumrik who sat picking berries by the stream.

Snufkin raised his head and sniffed curiously at it as it passed. A few white motes of dandelion trickled across the brim of his hat like a current, and all at once, Snufkin knew it was summer.

He wasn’t one who'd ever paid much attention to these kinds of things until recently. Before, there was only the vaguest feelings of such; when he longed for home –and in turn, Moomin– it must have been spring; when the fish ran beneath the water like a second stream, it must be summer. Snufkin had never felt the need to carry a watch or a calendar, though he knew he could get his hands on either easily enough. He was content as it was, only partially ignorant of the slow passing of time.

The mumrik smiled, dropping a handful of blackberries into his pail. He'd come quite some way to find them, and had spent the past few days hiking up and down from the mountain to the ocean in search of the dreadfully elusive fruit. He might have given up before now, but they were a gift—an important one at that.

Snufkin loved a great deal about Moominvalley. It was a place of perpetual beauty, even on its dour days, and its people were like no one else he'd come across in all his travelled years. They seemed to appreciate life with a joyous fervour, and to Snufkin's great admiration (and at times, exasperation) they did not often celebrate by halves—which was what had brought Snufkin out here to begin with.

Snorkmaiden's birthday was approaching with a familiar quickness that spoke of days passing far too easily. Since their torrential climb up Lonely Mountain a few months prior, the weather had been clear and hot, and Snufkin had let the hours slip past as he liked, allowing his mind to settle. It was only this morning that Moominmamma had told him of the approaching occasion, and if not for her, he might have let the ease of Moomintroll's company fly him straight through summer.

Smiling at the thought, he plucked a few more berries from their stems (leaving the bottom-most for smaller creatures, of course) and placed them gently into his bucket. With an easy sigh of satisfaction, he straightened up, adjusted his hat, and glanced around, waiting for a whim to carry him off once again into the bushes.

While he waited for the fickle thing to come, he removed his boots, hung them from his shoulder by their laces and stepped into the creek, sighing as the cool stream washed away the day’s heat. Absently, he picked his way upstream, balancing on the flat, slippery stones that made up the riverbed.

“Snufkin!” The call came from above him, and the mumrik tipped the brim of his hat against the sun as he glanced upwards.

“Teety-Woo,” he replied warmly. The creature seemed to puff up in pride at the sound of his name, as he often did.

The creature dropped off the branch and onto his shoulder with a trill, and Snufkin shifted his weight to adjust. Once, the closeness would have bothered him, but he had gotten quite used to Teety-Woo's strange, scattered presence. There were some Springs that he met Teety-Woo before anyone else, and over time he had found the small fellow to be an amiable companion, if a little too chatty.

“You found them, then?” Teety-Woo said, peering down his arm and into the bucket. The blackberries stared back, rolling gently at the bottom.

“I did.” Snufkin replied, stepping around a bend. “They were right where you said.”

Teety-Woo chittered happily. “Do you think Snorkmaiden will like them? We didn’t manage to get many at all.”

Snufkin jostled the bucket thoughtfully. “Enough for jam,” he decided. Catching the look on his companion's face, he added, “and enough for a snack, if you like.”

Teety-Woo shook his head. “I can’t go around eating gifts,” the creep mumbled, though he looked sorely tempted.

Snufkin shrugged, and with a small smile, picked a berry out of the bucket and popped it into his mouth. It was the first thing he'd eaten all day, and it tasted all the sweeter for it.

They walked that way for a time, Teety-Woo talking in his nervous way, and Snufkin humming at the proper times and pretending not to notice when the creature snuck a berry or two. When the stream became too deep, he climbed the bank and made off through the foliage towards the faint pillar of smoke rising from Moominhouse in the distance. They parted ways when they met a trail, and with a wave and a cheery goodbye, Snufkin began the short hike to his campsite.

A formless whistle came to him as he walked, light and barely audible through the rustling brush. The tune of it was soft and sweet, tracing the same minor notes of his spring tune—it was a slow, ambling song for summer, lasting only as long as it needed.

The Moomins’ lawn was scattered with tables and chairs in varying degrees of order. Moominmamma was busying herself with a checkered tablecloth that would go over the long table next to the garden and looked up as he approached with a smile and a wave.

“Snufkin,” she greeted, smoothing the fabric down over the oak table. “What do you have there?”

Snufkin lifted the bucket so she could see. “Blackberries,” he replied. “I was hoping we could make jam out of them.”

She nodded, and set back about her job. “If you leave them with Moomintroll, I can start on them in a moment. He's just in the kitchen.”

Snufkin tipped his hat politely and did as he was bid.

The door of Moominhouse hung open, creaking gently in the breeze; through it, Snufkin could make out the voices of Little My and Moomintroll, though the lilt of their conversation seemed entirely too pointed for the niceness of the day.

With a fond smile, he made sure to stomp loudly on the doormat so as not to take them unawares—their argument continued, regardless.

“I know it was you,” Moomintroll accused loudly as Snufkin rounded the doorway into the kitchen. His arms, caked up to the elbows in flour, were perched angrily on his hips as he glared daggers at My. His sister, for her part, sat blithely on the counter. “You can’t just –hullo, Snufkin– you can’t just take things that don’t belong to you!”

My snorted, kicking her legs against the side of the counter. “Don’t be a git,” she said rudely, crossing her arms to match. “I didn’t take anything of yours, least of all your…” she made a face, “ _poetry._ Tell Moomin he’s being a git, Snufkin.”

“No,” said Snufkin amusedly. “What’s happened?”

Moomin huffed and crossed his arms in a puff of flour. “My’s been digging around where she shouldn’t. Again.”

Little My ignored that and rolled her eyes at Snufkin. “Moomintroll thinks I’ve made off with some of his worldly wisdom,” she said mockingly. “What use would I have for it, anyhow?”

Moomintroll threw his arms up in exasperation. “I don’t know! But wherever you put it, I need it back. It’s a present, for Snorkmaiden.”

Little My gagged. “You’re giving her _poetry_ for her birthday? That seems a bit cruel, don’t you think?”

Moomin growled, and prepared to lunge, but Snufkin stepped forward, now curious. “Well, what did you get Snorkmaiden, then?” he asked innocently.

At this, Little My straightened up, looking very proud of herself. “As if I’d tell you just like that. All you need to know is that my gift is practical, heartfelt, and its not your stupid poetry.”

“I quite like his poetry,” chimed in Snufkin. At this, My gagged again, and Moomintroll flushed red. With a small, satisfied smile, he turned to Moomin and asked, “Maybe you misplaced it?”

“Not likely,” Moomin grumbled, shaking off his momentary flush. “It was in my good journal –the one with the lined paper– and I’ve been keeping it on me, just in case I get inspired by something out of the blue.” To prove this, Moomin dug into his apron and retrieved a small, leather-bound book, which he opened to a page marked with a ribbon.

“Look!” he said, thrusting the book at Snufkin. Snufkin looked. “The whole thing! It’s not ripped out, or anything, it’s just gone! The page numbers go from sixty-three to sixty-seven and I _know_ you had something to do with it, My!” At this, the mymble rolled backwards, laughing hysterically. “What?”

Little My cackled, wiping her eyes dramatically. “Your poem is _four pages long?_ Oh, the poor girl.”

“You’re impossible,” muttered Moomintroll, stuffing the book back in his apron and turning to Snufkin. For the first time, he seemed to notice the bucket in his hands. “What have you got there?”

Snufkin opened his mouth to tell him, but snapped his jaw shut just as quick. With a quizzical expression, he stared down at the empty bottom of the pail, where the blackberries had sat not a minute earlier. “Snufkin?” Moomin asked, noticing Snufkin’s gobsmacked expression.

“It’s… blackberries?” Snufkin murmured, tilting the bucket this way and that as if the fruits would roll out of the shadow at the bottom. Unsurprisingly, they did not; the pail was empty. “I… I picked them this afternoon. I don’t know where they’ve gone to.”

Moomin reached over to tilt the bucket with one finger, looking inside curiously. “Maybe you dropped them on the way back?” He said, his row with Little My seemingly forgotten. Little My, too, leaned across the counter to look at the empty pail.

“Awfully forgetful, the both of you,” she said with a smirk. “You two can be geriatric together, then.”

“Come off it, you little imp,” snarked Moomintroll. “You probably took the berries, too.”

Little My blinked. “Pardon me? You can’t blame me for this one, you sot—I was right here the whole time!”

The two fell back into their argument, but Snufkin ignored the both of them in favour of tipping the bucket upside down and shaking it confusedly. He stuck his head back into the hallway, hoping perhaps to see a trail of blackberries leading back to the porch—none appeared.

 _What in the world?_ Snufkin kneaded the hem of his cloak idly. So much for that, then. “Those took me all morning to find,” he said sadly.

Moomin brightened. “I can help you look for more, Snufkin!” he was halfway through untying his apron before My threw a handful of loose flour at him, making him splutter indignantly.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said, hopping down from the counter. “If you wanted to go on a walk, you shouldn’t have offered to help Moominmamma with the baking for tonight.”

Moomin looked down at his flour-y paws, then up at Little My imploringly. “Can’t you do it?”

In lieu of an answer, Little My traipsed towards the hall, spinning in the doorway with a mock-sad look on her face. “Sorry, Moomin,” she said in a put-upon voice. “I’ve got my own plans for tonight. Stuff to steal, _apparently_.” And then she was gone.

Moomin turned to Snufkin with a huff, shaking his head. “One day I’m going to punt her through a window, you just watch.”

Snufkin laughed. “You’d better not—she’d just land on her feet anyhow.” The mumrik leaned over the counter to sniff at the pie fillings that lay out in bowls. “What are you cooking?”

“Pies! Apple, blueberry, and peach.” Moomin smiled proudly, pointing at each bowl in turn. Then, with a scowl, he turned to look at a cookbook which lay open, next to where My had been sitting. “I can’t figure out the tops though—how do they get them all woven like in the pictures?”

Snufkin shrugged. “Magic, most like.” Moomin groaned and put his head in his paws.

When the troll resurfaced, he looked at Snufkin with a dramatic, pouty expression that made the mumrik’s tummy flutter. “Can you help?” Moomin asked, looking slightly desperate.

“I’d better not,” Snufkin said, recalling the bannock he’d burned over the campfire just a night earlier. “I’m not much for baking, really. I’d ruin anything I touched.”

Moomin scrunched his nose, and Snufkin noticed some flour had rubbed off from his hands next to one fluffy ear. Grinning, Snufkin reached out and brushed the flour away gently, watching Moomin flush red as a tomato.

_Click._

The two jumped at the sudden sound, turning to the doorway, where Moominpappa stood, carrying a camera and an innocent expression. “Don’t mind me, now,” he said with good humor, waving one hand. Snufkin felt his own face flush red, and he pulled his hat down low to try to cover his mortified expression.

“Papa!” Moomin shouted, scandalised. “You can’t just go around taking pictures of people!”

Moominpappa waved his son off with a grin, watching the polaroid print slowly from the base of the camera. “Nonsense,” he said airily, waving the developing photo back and forth. “How else am I supposed to know if it works?” With the camera in one hand and the photo in the other, Moominpappa leaned back appraisingly to peer at his handiwork.

With an affronted huff, Moomin stomped over and snatched the photo from his father, perching his paws back on his hips sternly. Moominpappa raised one eyebrow at his son, then his face lit up with inspiration.

“Best to keep that on hand, my boy,” Moominpappa said, gesturing to the photo. “It’s always nice to have memories like this to look back on.” With a satisfied nod at his own wisdom, the old Moomin winked at the two and made to leave. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to test this old thing out a few more times, and your mother is oh-so photogenic.”

Moomin made a face at him as he left, and while he did, Snufkin took the moment to collect himself. Once he felt his face cool off, Snufkin lifted the brim of his hat to see Moomin standing in the doorway, looking down at the photo with an odd expression on his soft snout. Smiling, Snufkin sidled across the kitchen to peer over his shoulder.

The photo had been taken at an odd angle, and one corner of it was taken up by the edge of the doorframe—Moominpappa had evidently been peering around it as he’d snapped it. The rest of the photo was taken up by he and Moomin, his hand outstretched to brush the flour off Moomin’s ear. The two of them stood in front of the window, surrounded by motes of airborne flour that seemed to glow in the shaft of sun that peeked in through the lace curtains. It was, in spite of Moominpappa’s unorthodox technique, a very good picture.

“Do I really look like that?” Moomin said quietly, tilting the picture so Snufkin could better see. “I’m all tubby.”

Snufkin hummed at that, then rested his chin lightly on Moomin’s shoulder, fighting to keep a silly grin off his face. “Handsome, too,” he said, reaching around Moomin to tilt the photo back towards him. “That apron suits you.”

Moomin spluttered for a moment. “Nonsense,” he said in a defeated sort of way, pride and anxiety fighting over his expression. “I can’t even thatch a pie properly. Are you sure you don’t want to help?”

“I’d like to,” Snufkin said rather truthfully, “but those blackberries were my present for Snorkmaiden—they chose a poor time to wander off.”

Moomin nodded consolingly, then paused, as if steeling his nerves. Lightning quick, he leaned down to plant a kiss on Snufkin’s nose, then straightened up with a cough. “Right,” he said, determinedly, “I’ve got pies to thatch. Wish me luck?”

Snufkin wondered idly if it was possible to get heat stroke from blushing. Clearing his throat, he donned his hat once again and smiled at Moomin, who had gone to pore over the cookbook with an air of absolute concentration.

As Snufkin left, he dutifully ignored Moomin tucking the photo tenderly between the pages of his journal, fingers still powdered with flour.

***

On his way out of Moominhouse, Snufkin made sure to edge around Moominpappa where he perched, hidden under the eaves—his attempts at subtlety were promptly ignored.

“Psst,” Moominpappa whispered, beckoning him over. “Snufkin, my boy!” Snufkin, not particularly liking the direction of the conversation, approached warily. “I need you to get Moominmamma over to this side of the house, next to the peonies. It’ll make for a wonderful photo!”

Snufkin looked blankly at the old Moomin. “Can’t you just ask her to come by?”

At this, Moominpappa made a scandalized noise and shook his head in disbelief. “The best pictures,” he informed the beleaguered mumrik, “are candid. No pretentions, just a snapshot into the life of the subject. I’m thinking of submitting some of my work to a magazine—or making a scrapbook! What do you think?”

Snufkin considered that, desperately looking for an out from the conversation. “I think I left my campfire burning,” he decided on, rather clumsily. “Cheerio!”

“Right,” said Moominpappa distractedly, fiddling with his camera as if he hadn’t heard the response at all. “Remember, by the peonies.”

Moominpappa’s unknowing subject was still out front, smoothing over the same tablecloth she had been when Snufkin had arrived. As he approached, he watched Moominmamma inch the thing imperceptibly to the left, eye her work, then inch it right back to where it had been. To Snufkin’s concern, she was looking rather harried.

“Mama?” He said, concern clouding his expression. “Are you alright?”

At the sound of his voice, Moominmamma jumped, and smoothed her expression over with the same finesse she’d been using on the tablecloth. “Oh, Snufkin,” she said, glancing self-consciously at her work. “Yes, I’m quite alright. I just want everything to be perfect for tonight, you know.”

Snufkin nodded—he did know. For weeks now, Snorkmaiden had been increasingly vacant from her usual spots, preferring to hunker down in her room instead of anything else they might have done. On some nights, if Snufkin’s midnight wanderings took him by the Snorks’ place, he would see a candle burning in her window, long into the night.

Moominmamma was not the only person to have noticed Snorkmaiden’s sudden reclusivity—near everyone with a little bit of brains to spare (meaning everyone excluding Sniff and Papa) had been talking about it all month. The worst thing about it, was that nobody seemed to know what had caused her sudden bout of introversion—nobody, that was, except for Snufkin, and perhaps Alicia.

Buried in his own thoughts, Snufkin had nearly forgotten what he’d came here for. “Moominpappa’s taking photos of you,” he said, slightly embarrassedly. Moominmamma blinked at that, then sighed in a way that made Snufkin think this was not an uncommon occurrence.

“And I thought I’d hidden that camera so well,” she sighed. “Just you watch—he’ll want to start scrapbooking soon.”

Snufkin nodded conspiratorially and decided not to tell her the bad news. “You know,” he said, swinging his bucket back and forth. “If it went missing once, it could go missing again. At the bottom of a stream, perhaps.”

Moominmamma chuckled and pulled at the edge of a tablecloth. “That shouldn’t be necessary,” she said, though her voice had a thoughtful lilt to it. “That man runs his interests thin quite quickly, you know how he gets. If you’re free though, I do have an errand I’d like to ask of you.”

Snufkin nodded, hoping that she knew he was quite serious about the camera going missing—as nice as the photo of him and Moomin had been, he quite liked his privacy intact, thank you very much.

“Could you check on Snorkmaiden for me? I’m sure its nothing, but I haven’t seen her all day, and I’m getting worried she’s forgotten the occasion.”

Snufkin nodded, relaxing somewhat. “I was about to drop by anyhow,” he said, glad that the favour hadn’t been anything demanding. “I’ll say hello for you?”

Moominmamma smiled gratefully. “If it’s not too much. Will you be joining us tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he replied truthfully. Though celebrations often made him more anxious than excited, he was well and truly prepared for this one; it was the first party of the summer, which meant as much pie as he could eat, and smaller crowds than usual. _I might even stay ‘til the end of this one,_ he thought blithely.

With that thought in mind, he bid his goodbyes for the moment, and started off towards the Snorks’ house, noticing somewhat belatedly that he was still carrying the empty bucket. Just for good measure, he rattled the handle, wondering how the berries had gone missing so quickly—he and Teety-Woo hadn’t eaten _that_ many, to be certain, and besides, he showed them to Moominmamma before he’d entered the house.

 _That,_ he realized, _and Moomin’s poetry._ Things appeared to be disappearing left and right of late, and with a slight grin, Snufkin could not help but wish that Moominpappa’s camera would be next.

The Snorks’ house sat atop a portly little hill next to the woods and looked to Snufkin like more garage than house. The Snork’s avid assembly of mechanical machinations had grown in spades in the past year or so, and each new gizmo needed space to put it, leading to a lumpy, makeshift-looking abode. Snufkin liked it for its oddities.

Standing in front of it, Snufkin scratched at his chin and wondered idly how to get about the house—it would be the polite thing to knock, certainly, but there was a growing feeling in his chest that told him to climb the siding and slip in through an open window, just to see if he could.

As he stood there, considering his options, the door opened, and Snork appeared, looking rather frazzled in a set of grease-stained overalls.

“I thought I saw you loitering out here,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “What do you need?”

Snufkin raised an eyebrow. “Just looking in on Snorkmaiden,” he replied. Now that the door was open, he could smell faint smoke, and see the bins of scrap scattered across the entryway. “No one's seen her in ages, and Moominmamma was wondering if she was feeling alright.”

Snork squinted at him, one hand still resting guardedly on the doorknob, as if wanting very much to close the door in his face. “Where's that Moomin chap?” He asked waspishly. “Haven’t seen him around for a time or two. Why are you here instead?”

“He's helping with the party,” Snufkin said plainly. At Snork's blank look, he continued, “The birthday party—for Snorkmaiden.”

Snork nodded in a certain way that made Snufkin think he'd rather forgotten. “Her birthday. Yes. Well...” he looked over his shoulder in the way one does when they've left something unattended for too long. “Come in then, but don't touch anything.”

With that, Snork turned, leaving the door open and stepping carefully around the boxes. As Snufkin wound his way into the house, he couldn’t help but notice that all the boxes lay open, their contents spilled out in a mess of scrap and tools and other oddities.

“What on earth happened in here?” Snufkin asked curiously. He had never seen the house in such a state—anyone who’d met Snork knew he kept everything in order, down to the dust which speckled his older inventions.

Snork waved him off moodily. “Nothing, nothing,” he said, looking about at all the evidence to the contrary. “I’ve… misplaced something rather important.” He cursed lightly. “I swear, it was in the attic, I’d left it under a photo album…” Snork drifted off in thought, chin in hand, seeming to have forgotten that Snufkin was even here.

Snufkin cleared his throat awkwardly. “Should I just go upstairs, or…?”

“What? Oh, yes,” Snork shook his head. “Sorry, I’m a bit out of sorts today.”

 _That seems to be going around,_ Snufkin mused, leaving Snork to his mutterings. The stairs creaked horribly on the way up, but even the loud creaking couldn’t overshadow the thundering snores which emanated from Snorkmaiden’s room. Snufkin smiled wryly. _That answers where she’s been all day, I suppose._

Out of politeness more than prudency, Snufkin rapped on the door and waited for a response—not at all to his surprise, none came. With a roll of his eyes, he opened the door anyhow, stepping into the room proper and preparing himself for whatever state his friend might be in.

The room was messy, though not in the way Moominhouse often was. The Moomin residence always had a lived-in feeling to it, as if each dusty corner held a good memory no one had gotten around to forgetting yet; Snorkmaiden’s room, however, was a true sort of mess.

The curtains, drawn haphazardly against the midday sun, let in enough light to see the piles of books which festooned the floor and desk in equal parts. A half-dozen candles sat on the desk, burned to nubs and sagging onto each other like old friends after a night on the town; the remains of half-eaten meals lay scattered across the room in odd places, as if they’d been cast aside in favour of the dusty manuscripts which dotted the scene like chopped leeks garnishing a miserable, half-forgotten soup.

Snorkmaiden herself lay snoring at the desk, drooling onto diagrams of what looked like ancient rites of passage. Her fringe of golden hair, usually so carefully tended, stuck up in all directions like a thicket of autumn grass, and as he approached, Snufkin saw heavy bags under her eyes. She looked exhausted.

He set down his pail gently and padded over to the window, cracking it to let in a breeze. The frame creaked loudly, but Snorkmaiden didn't seem to notice.

He smiled, considering how best to wake her, or even if to wake her at all. She looked like she needed the rest.

On a corner of the desk sat an oblong box with a carving of a dandelion on its lid. Tools lay scattered around it, chisels and screwdrivers and knives of all sorts, and Snufkin saw that the wood on one side was pitted where she had tried to pry the thing open. He frowned; he'd forgotten entirely about the box that they'd found on their springtime adventure. He stared at it, trying to understand why Snorkmaiden was so enraptured by it that she hardly left the house anymore, but he found himself coming up short.

It was just a box. A pretty box, but a box nonetheless.

Shaking himself, he leaned over and prodded her on the shoulder gently. “Snorkmaiden,” he whispered, watching her face twitch at the bother. “Wake up, its half-past noon.”

Snorkmaiden woke slowly, as if struggling against some heavy blanket—her own comforter, Snufkin now saw, was pooled on the floor around her chair, having fallen there sometime during the night. Snufkin watched (with only a little bit of schadenfreude), as Snorkmaiden blinked blearily to life, grunting in a very unladylike fashion, and grabbing groggily for the blanket which was no longer there. Feeling a bit bad now, Snufkin leaned down and handed her a corner of the comforter, which she immediately used to cocoon herself from the outside world.

“What…” she asked from under the blanket, voice croaky. “What was that?” 

Snufkin raised one eyebrow and prodded her shoulder through the blanket. “It’s half-past noon. You should come outside while its sunny, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.” He coughed awkwardly, not quite knowing what else to say in this sort of situation. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

In response, Snorkmaiden grumbled out a series of what might have been words, poking her snout petulantly from the folds of the blanket. The sight tugged at his heart, and Snufkin offered her his waterskin wordlessly, which she chugged like it was the first thing she’d drank in days—for all Snufkin knew, it was.

“I'm supposed to be the hermit,” said Snufkin ruefully, taking the skin back once Snorkmaiden had drunk her fill.

“Well,” she returned, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. She pulled the blanket from her head and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, blinking blearily. “At least you know who you're supposed to be.”

Snufkin blinked. “Pardon?”

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” She grimaced, and carefully wiped the drool off the page she'd used as a pillow with her paw, then rubbed her paw off on one leg carelessly. Snufkin watched her, dumbstruck.

Even when she had been asleep, she had looked tired, but seeing her in this state made his heart ache for her. She looked as if she were awake only by virtue of vague obligation and a quickly-waning will. Now that he was closer to her, he could see the slump in her shoulders and the miserable greenish pallor that was working its way across her form like ink dropped in water. She smelled unwashed, and her fur was matted in places, giving her the look of a stuffed animal that had rolled into a drainage ditch.

“I dreamed that it was open,” she said dully, glancing at the box. It seemed to weigh her down further just looking at it, and Snufkin fought down the urge to just chuck the thing out a window and be done with it.

Instead, he offered, “Dreams can be quite revealing.” A thought occurred to him. “What was inside?”

Snorkmaiden scoffed and threw the end of a cloth over the wretched thing, as if covering it up would make it go away. “I don’t know. I always seem to wake up before I can see.”

Feeling a touch guilty, Snufkin nodded. “Your party’s tonight,” He said, looking desperately for a change of subject. Snorkmaiden hummed, looking thoroughly distracted.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” He asked carefully. He looked out the window and breathed in the smells of summer. “It would be a shame to be inside on a day like today.” Saying it out loud felt odd, but Snufkin had always believed that too much time spent indoors was a recipe for a clouded mind.

To her credit, Snorkmaiden seemed to consider that for a moment, before her head dipped to look back at the monstrous book pile. “A walk might be nice,” she admitted tiredly; but before Snufkin could count one for small victories, she followed, “But I really do need to get back to it—I think I’ve almost found it, Snufkin, _really_ , I have.”

Snufkin didn’t bother asking what it was she was looking for—as near as he could tell from previous talks like this one, she didn’t quite know, herself. “You need fresh air more than you need another page of that book,” Snufkin said determinedly.

Snorkmaiden simply scoffed. “Come off it. What do you know?”

“Plenty. I know you're hungry. And I know that Moominmamma's made enough food to feed us all until the snow melts next year.”

As if on cue, Snorkmaiden’s stomach growled, just as she opened her mouth to deny his claim. They sat in the awkward quiet for a moment, before Snorkmaiden sighed heavily, slouching in her chair, and looking dourly out the window.

“Is Moomin going to be there?” She asked, shrinking imperceptibly. Snufkin swallowed, a wave of guilt settling over him.

“Probably,” he replied. “He’s baking pies for tonight, and it wouldn’t be like him to avoid a party. Come to think of it,” he mused, glancing over her critically, “it wouldn’t be very much like you, either.”

Snorkmaiden scowled slightly, staring at the lump in the cloth that hid the carved box from sight. “Yes,” she admitted, not meeting his gaze, “well, perhaps I just want to be left alone this year. And don’t bother being a hypocrite and telling me that’s not healthy.”

“Right,” Snufkin said, rubbing his fingers along the hem of his cloak. Unbothered, Snorkmaiden continued.

“Yes. Indeed. I think I'll go back to that book, now. I was just getting to a good part, too.”

At this, Snufkin held back a snort of laughter. “I could tell. Good books often put me to sleep, I've found.”

“Come off it,” she spat dourly. “I’m serious!”

“Try me, then,” Snufkin challenged, peering down at the splayed book.

Like a lantern, Snorkmaiden’s expression brightened. Immediately, she dug one paw through a small notebook with a cracked spine and pushed it across to him, flipping madly with the other. “You’ll see,” she said, excitedly, speaking like a mad playwright with a captive audience, “I bought this book from a fellow at the port nearly a week ago. Look!”

Snufkin looked. The page Snorkmaiden had flipped to was splayed across with hand-drawn imagery depicting a sacrifice of some sort—Snufkin’s nose wrinkled in distaste, but Snorkmaiden ploughed onwards, irrespective of his discomfort.

“According to _A Guide to Fae Customs_ ,” she explained breathlessly, “spirits and fairies always want something from the people they come across. Briginald Baywater,” she said somewhat fawningly, turning to book over and showing Snufkin the author description, “says they’re all quite nasty, and that you should never get involved with a spirit, because they’re odd and greedy and want all your things.”

Snufkin raised an eyebrow, looking down at the portrait that accompanied Briginald Baywater’s biography—the Hemulon didn’t look to have stepped outside a day in his life, and Snufkin highly doubted he’d ever actually come across any Fae of his own accord; perhaps he had, once, and had been tricked so badly he’d felt the need to write an entire book describing the nastiness of such creatures. Snufkin might have pitied the poor fool, if he hadn’t heard his angry rhetoric coming no doubt verbatim out of Snorkmaiden’s mouth.

“Perhaps you should try another book,” Snufkin said tersely. Snorkmaiden paid him no mind.

“I’m not finished,” she informed him, excitement spilling into her tone. If he had known her any worse, he might have thought her excitement genuine—as it was, the desperation in her eyes was evident. “Briginald says,” she carried on, flipping to a page marked by a coffee-stained bookmark, “that sometimes, you don’t even know when you’ve gotten involved with a nasty spirit—he says that putting something down in the wrong place can be seen as a way to take advantage of the rites of offering! Do you remember my flower crown?”

Snufkin furrowed his brow, trying to keep up; a vague feeling of unease had begun tempering Snorkmaiden’s manic energy. It was true, he supposed, that some spirits took advantage of innocuous things people on this side of the veil did—but that did not mean this Baywater fellow got carte blanche to decry their whole species. It seemed likely to Snufkin that the only one being taken advantage of here was Snorkmaiden, who’d somehow been conned into buying this rag of a book.

One look at his friend however, staunched his opposition. The excitement had bled slowly to anxiety, and Snorkmaiden looked as if the smallest rebuke would topple her from what little grace she’d managed to cling to. So instead of anything he wanted to say, he replied with a simple, “What about your crown?”

Snorkmaiden nodded. “Right. The crown. Well…” here, she seemed to run out of gas. “I put it down, right? And when we came back for it, it was gone!”

Instinctively, Snufkin went to shake his head –the crown probably just blew away in the storm– but something about recalling their trip stopped him in his tracks. It took a great deal of effort not to look at the carved box, still hidden under the blanket—with a start, he realized Snorkmaiden was struggling with the same thing, both of them trying to ignore the reason for her obsession.

“Right,” Snorkmaiden continued, “and then I found the box, didn’t I? Right where I remember leaving the crown—no way that’s coincidence, right?”

It was the sort of question that wasn’t, really. Everything about the situation, from the vitriolic book, to the desperation in Snorkmaiden’s voice, told Snufkin that something was very wrong with his friend.

“A-and,” Snorkmaiden continued, stumbling as she saw the look of skepticism on his face, “Moominmamma found one too! A box, that is. She showed it to me, and it looks so much alike!”

Snufkin frowned. “Why don’t you just ask her about it, then?”

Snorkmaiden got a sour look on her face. “Moominmamma figured out hers just fine,” she said, a bite coming out in her voice. “She didn’t need any help with it, so I don’t need any either.”

Snufkin sighed and leaned towards the window to catch the breeze on his face—he hadn’t been inside for very long, and already he could feel the stir-madness setting in. He could hardly imagine how Snorkmaiden felt. After a moment of contemplation, he looked at Snorkmaiden and firmly asked, “Will you come for a walk?”

Snorkmaiden sniffled slightly, glancing towards the covered box. “I really do think I’m close to figuring it out,” she said, hollowly. “It won’t take much longer.”

“Then a short walk won’t hurt your progress,” said Snufkin decisively—then, softer, “Teety-Woo and I found a blackberry bush by the stream.”

It was the mention of blackberries which proved the final straw for Snorkmaiden’s harried defenses. With a miserable look, she nodded, and slid out of the chair stiffly. “Alright,” she acceded, “Just a short walk, then. Where are these blackberries?”

Snufkin smiled, relived. “They’re not far,” he said, feeling just a little bad about the lie. In his head, he was already planning the scenic route they would take to get there, and all the places they could get lost on the way back. “I left a couple behind on the bush this morning, just in case.”

“What did you do with the rest?” Snorkmaiden asked, somewhat airily. Snufkin stopped for a moment, thinking about how to answer that—in lieu of a real answer, he ended up shrugging. The missing berries would make for a funny story on the way there, but Snufkin wanted to leave the stuffy room as soon as possible.

On the way out, he couldn’t help but notice Snorkmaiden looking forlornly back at the blanket which covered one corner of the table—or more accurately, what was under the blanket.

Snufkin thought as they walked. His thoughts were strained, and he felt somehow more tired than he should be. _It's that box_ , he mused dourly. _It seems more like a curse to me._

What else did one call something that drove one away from their friends and stole sleep like the Sandman? Ever since she had found it, Snorkmaiden seemed ever more distant—as if everything she cared about in the whole world had been stuffed into that damned box. The more Snufkin thought about it, the more he was sure it had been a mistake to ever pick the thing up.

 _You should have left it alone_ , he thought, though he could not say it. He would be damned if he added any more to the weight that seemed to drag on his friend now. _Especially after I've come between her and Moomin._ Her feet dragged along the path and her gaze sat firmly on the ground in front of them, as if each pebble and rock would be the key to what ailed her.

Snufkin sighed, and not for the first time, wished that he could offer more than vague comforts and silent company.

***

Despite the gloom that hung over Snorkmaiden like a raincloud, their hike went spectacularly well; on their way to the forest, they stumbled across Little My, who came skipping out of the foliage with an innocent look about her that neither Snorkmaiden nor Snufkin believed for an instant. After that, Sniff joined them after falling from a birch tree while trying to steal yarn from a bird’s nest, and the afternoon slipped by in good company and high spirits.

As he led his laughing friends through the brush, Snufkin could not help but feel Moomin’s absence in their group. The sunbeams which so often puddled around the foliage made Snufkin think about the sunbeam he’d shared with Moomin just a few hours previously; despite the somewhat dour reason for their hike, Snufkin was glad for the casual companionship he found himself in now—even if it lacked Moomin’s particular charms. 

Making their relationship official had been both mortifying and underwhelming, all at once. Their family gathered under what Moomin had assured him were perfectly normal pretenses, they had broken the news over tea and pie—Moominmamma, bless her, had at least _acted_ surprised at the news, though no one else seemed to bother.

“Duh,” Little My had said, and it seemed to be a sentiment shared by the rest—and that had simply been that.

***

They returned from their hike as the sun made its slow descent, and they arrived on the lawn of Moominhouse to find the table piled high with food, little paper lanterns hanging from the clothesline.

Snorkmaiden acted the bashful type, though Snufkin saw how pleased the array had made her—gone was the tired, miserable snork who slept on books and chiseled away her night at strange boxes. At least for the moment, surrounded by her family, Snorkmaiden had returned.

During dinner, Moominpappa announced how proud he was of the birthday snork, and decided he would be making a record of the occasion—to Snufkin’s dismay, he held the camera aloft, and took a gamut of photos before anyone could complain properly.

To Moominpappa’s dismay, (and Snufkin’s quiet celebration) the camera flashed and clicked, though no picture came printing out the bottom—no matter how many times Papa fiddled with the film roll and insisted it had been working. Grinning, Snufkin met Moominmamma’s eyes from across the table and toasted her—though she seemed just as confused as her husband.

 _Perhaps Little My finally stole something worth stealing,_ Snufkin thought, somewhat dizzily. He hadn’t noticed, but somehow, the wine in his cup had gone missing as well. _So many odd happenings today,_ he mused, wobbling in his seat. _At least I know where my wine has gone to._

Around him was quiet chaos—Little My and Sniff had gotten into a game of poker (in which the former had decided to cheat blatantly), Snorkmaiden was whispering about something with her brother, looking somewhat apart from the festivities. Before he could think any more on the subject, Moomin nudged him from his other side, somewhat drunkenly.

“I should like to hold your hand,” he said in a stage-whisper so loud, even Sniff glanced over. Snufkin glanced around worriedly, but Moomin’s shameless announcement seemed to have been largely ignored by the rest of the partygoers. Snorkmaiden held back a giggle and watched in mild amusement as Snufkin’s expression flipped from uncomfortable to thoughtful, then back again.

Huffing, the mumrik downed the remainder of his glass in one go, slipped his paw into Moomin’s with a scandalized air, and slumped down low in his seat, as if torn between wanting to become invisible and wanting very much to skip in circles. He felt rather like a deflating balloon, and all that kept him from spinning around was the warm weight of Moomin’s hand in his. Moomin, for his part, looked thrilled, beaming as he filled Snufkin’s empty glass from his own, sloshing wine onto the tablecloth in the process.

They stayed there, long into the night—until the moon sat above them, round and full. When all had eaten their fill, Moomin staggered off to get the pies, presenting them to Snorkmaiden with a bashful, prideful air. They hadn’t talked all night, and in truth, hadn’t spoken much over the last few weeks—Snorkmaiden accepted the pies with a soft smile, and kissed Moomin on the cheek.

“I like the way you did the tops,” she said quietly. Moomin smiled at that, as if she’d just pulled the moon down from its perch.

“Happy birthday, Snorkmaiden,” he said.

The night was quieter after that, though it was steeped in contentment rather than discomfort. Sniff, who had procured some coloured candles, popped a few into the pie before they cut it, making Moomin wince and squeeze Snufkin’s hand dramatically as his day’s hard work was devoured enthusiastically.

Snorkmaiden looked around with a genuine smile, her first one in ages. Her family watched closely as she closed her eyes and made a wish under the bright dime of the moon—mind made up, she wished with all her might, then blew the candles out, and gave Moominmamma the first slice of pie.

Had any of them been paying attention, they might have noticed the wind carry her wish away, deep into the night; had anyone been paying attention, they might have noticed how brightly the moon seemed to glow at the moment of Snorkmaiden’s wish, putting the coloured lanterns around them to shame.

Had the Snorks’ house not been vacant, they might have noticed the blanket slip from a carved box that sat on a wax-spattered desk. The window, opened by Snufkin and forgotten by Snorkmaiden, played gateway for the moonlight which spilled into the room like a silver stream, slipping gently over the carved wooden box.

Silently, and perhaps a bit hopefully, it waited for Snorkmaiden’s return.


	2. A strange sort of knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snorkmaiden makes a decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you begin, a note:
> 
> I meant to keep this story on a tight schedule, I really did. But we all know how the last few months have been. I won't say that everything's back on track now regarding this fic, because it isn't- but I want to thank you for sticking with, despite it all.
> 
> Stay well, and I hope you enjoy.

It was the pie of all things that did it.

The crust was perfect, the mood light and hearty as they tucked in—the perfect way to round out a birthday, in Snorkmaiden’s opinion. It’s just… it was the filling, you see. The filling was a little too tart.

It reminded her of crab apples.

Once she’d finished the slice, Snorkmaiden took a sip of tea to hide the frown which grew across her face like moss over a stone. It was the sort of expression that could cover a person were they not paying attention.

The tea was jasmine, Moominmamma had told her, and the earthy flavour was just the thing to wash down the meal. It put her back in a good mood for a time, and she laughed along with the rest as Little My lost hand after hand of poker, her face souring like a small, round fruit that Snorkmaiden was certainly _not_ thinking about again.

Moominmamma threw her a glance of the same variety she’d been giving her all night—a crooked little smile accompanied by one hand smoothing down the tablecloth as though it weren’t in perfect proportion. As far as nervous tics went, it wasn’t much of one at all, but Snorkmaiden still made a point of correcting her falling expression to one with the right amount of contentment that a birthday girl should have. No sense making anyone worry unduly, after all.

“Thank you,” she said to Moominmamma with a smile. “I think I really needed this.”

She suspected there had been a lot of worrying recently, due in no small part to her self-imposed hermitage. The walk earlier with her friends had been nice, no doubt, but it had also been peppered with oddly timed questions which never seemed to ask what they meant to.

 _I should feel glad that they care enough to wonder_. The thought was dour, but she made sure not to let it show. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

A gentle breeze chilled the night, swinging the lanterns from their clothesline moorings. It wasn’t near enough to blow away the party however, much to Snorkmaiden’s growing dismay. She appreciated it, she really did—but her mind simply refused to stay rooted to the table with the rest of her.

“Snorkmaiden?”

The question jarred her, and she blinked out of a chapter of _Fae and their properties_ that she’d nearly memorized by now. Her brother was looking at her, his expression a bit askew from the half-empty glass of wine he held. “Hullo? Snorkmaiden?”

“Sorry,” she said reflexively, fumbling for social graces that usually came so easily to her. She took a sip of her own wine, almost reflexively. “What was that?”

Her brother rolled his eyes, adjusting his glasses with a free hand—Snorkmaiden couldn’t manage to suppress her an eye-roll of her own when they ended up more skewed than they had been before.

“Happy birthday,” Snork said, with an admirable lack of slurring, “is what I was saying. Happy birthday.”

Snorkmaiden felt herself smile, just a small bit. “Thank you, Snork.”

Her brother nodded, then took a sip of wine before continuing. “I had a present,” he said, in a conspicuous whisper, “but I couldn’t find it.”

Snorkmaiden snorted at that, waving one paw dismissively. “I’m not a child, Snork. You don’t need to put anything on—and I don’t need any presents.”

For some reason, that statement knit Snork’s eyebrows together rather sadly—it was an odd look for someone whose expression seemed perpetually stuck as haughty or disinterested. “Suppose not,” he said, sighing heavily. “You’d have liked some, though.”

That much was true. However grown-up she might have fancied herself, Snorkmaiden couldn’t help but feel a bit put out by the lack of gifts—it was a juvenile thought, she knew, but one she couldn’t quite help herself from having.

“The greatest present of all,” intoned Moominpappa from the other side of the table, having apparently been listening in, “is good company and fine dining.” He leaned towards Moominmamma, who was still smoothing the tablecloth obsessively. “Isn’t that right dear?”

Moominmamma fixed Snorkmaiden with an apologetic look. “It is, dearest.” She traded her fussing of the tablecloth for fussing with her apron. “All the same, I’m sorry dear. We did make a little something for you, but its just-”

Snorkmaiden waved her off, feeling quite uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Really, Moominmamma,” she said, trying to force all the confidence in her voice she wished she had. “I don’t need anything—and the dining really was fine, by the by.”

That made the older Moomin smile, which made Snorkmaiden feel better by proxy. Moominpappa nodded sagely, fiddling with his camera as he had all through the meal. Snorkmaiden was glad to let the subject drop, but her brother didn’t seem so inclined.

“Did you really grow up, just like that?” Snork asked wistfully. His expression was still that odd mix of melancholies that didn’t seem to fit his face quite well. “You used to pitch fits over these sorts of things, you know.”

Snorkmaiden shot him her best ‘please shut up, oh brother, mine’ look, which he proceeded to ignore completely. “Yes,” he continued, heedless of her growing irritation, “One time I had to nick a blanket you saw in a shopfront to keep you from crying over it.”

“ _You_ stole something?” Moomintroll asked incredulously, leaving his and Sniff’s conversation mid-sentence. “I don’t believe it.”

Moomin wasn’t the only person at the table to be suddenly interested; Everyone’s gazes swapped to rest on Snork, who seemed to be enjoying the sudden attention. The only person who didn’t seem to hang off his every word was Snufkin, who caught her eye and shot her a commiserate look, followed by a swig of wine; feeling bound to her fate, Snorkmaiden toasted him and followed suit.

“Snufkin isn’t the only one who once wore vagabond shoes,” Snork said secretively. “It’s why I like my house so much—in retrospect, that is. The road’s far too fussy a place for a Snork like me.”

That was met with a series of glances and mutterings, save for Snufkin, who responded glibly, “I still wear my vagabond shoes, actually. They’re quite comfortable.”

The topic was on its way to changing, just as Snorkmaiden had wanted, but something about her brother’s admission made her frown. It took some effort to track backwards in their conversation, but she found the thing which niggled her: “You told me you’d bought that blanket,” she said, before she could stop herself.

Snork had the good grace to look a bit embarrassed. “Well, yes,” he said, fiddling with his glasses again. “I wanted to set the right example, you know. Good role model, all that.”

“I always knew you were the providing sort, my boy,” said Moominpappa with a tip of his hat. “Sometimes one must act frightfully roguish to see things through for one’s family.”

While Moominpappa launched heartily into a story about his own days of roguery, Snorkmaiden cast back in her memory. She wanted badly to ask what other things Snork had ‘bought’ them while they had travelled, but that line of questioning led rather too close to the crab apples she was trying to avoid. Instead, she tried to remember what had happened to the blanket in question.

It had been a starry thing, she remembered, navy blue and quilted with round stars of soft yellow fabric. She even remembered what they felt like to run her fingers over, how they would bend slightly at the edges where they were sewed.

She pulled herself out of reminiscence just long enough to make sure nobody was paying her any attention before slipping back in—the memories of the blanket smelled like beach dew and tasted sweet. She had not thought of it in an awfully long time.

 _Where is that blanket now?_ She thought, tapping the rim of her wine glass absently. She’d seen it not so long ago, she was sure… in a box perhaps, while looking for candles in their attic. It had been folded and a little dusty, and at the time, she’d pushed it aside without a thought.

 _I would like to hold it now,_ she mused wistfully. _I wonder if it still smells like the sea._

“Excuse me,” she said, jostling Moominpappa out of a story. “I think all this wine has gone straight to my head.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Little My raise one eyebrow to stare at her glass, which had yet to be refilled even once. “You’ve all been rather wonderful this evening, but I’m afraid I’ll be saying goodnight.”

There was a dull upheaval that was slightly too drunk to be heartfelt, so Snorkmaiden waved her arms and gave the correct platitudes to the correct people. Little My narrowed her eyes, then leaned over to whisper something in Snufkin’s ear—he frowned, then said something back, the words lost in the murmur.

Just for the show of it, Snorkmaiden downed the rest of her wine, then rounded the table to give Moominmamma a grateful hug. It seemed to ease some of the weight from her shoulders, and Snorkmaiden left the lawn to calls of good fortune and plans for the morrow.

She’d thought it would be harder to leave, really, but alcohol tended to have a softening effect on people, she supposed.

The dirt path home was still warm from the heat of the day, and Snorkmaiden spent the small trip trying to remember where exactly that blanket would be. She stepped through the poppy-wreathed gate onto her porch and climbed the ladder to the attic with a mind only half in her head.

Once she poked through the dust and cobwebs of the attic’s hatch, she blinked in surprise—when last she’d been up here, it had been meticulously organized in piles of labelled boxes covered in Snork’s even handwriting. Now, it looked as if a tornado had gone through, spilling the memories over the floor like pebbles on a river bottom.

She stepped over an old typewriter on her way to the center of the blast zone, stubbing her toe and making a jingling sound of the keys. There was a small paper boat sitting atop a crumpled pile of costume materials; several disassembled model planes lay buried in the wreckage of a stack of leather-bound journals; against the wall, under the gable window, was a large handmade doll’s house poking out from behind a stack of overturned boxes. She’d come here looking for a memory, and now had found herself ankle-deep in them.

Just as she began to be overwhelmed by the sly enormity of the things around her, one bin caught her attention, sitting in a beam of moonlight. It seemed odd to find something so neat-looking in the room as it was, but there it was, cardboard corners folded over each other. She knelt beside it and read the label, feeling a hot splash of excitement surge through her chest.

_Home Things._

It was written in Snork’s handwriting, though something about it seemed off to Snorkmaiden—it was as if the words had been written smaller than all the other labels, to better bury it in all the other things which found their way up here. It was also, more excitingly, vaguely familiar.

She opened it quietly, as if not to disturb the cluttered quiet around her by rifling through them. Inside, to add to the cacophony of things: a faded purple scarf, a black and silver suitcase, and a star-speckled blanket, folded with obvious care.

It was soft to the touch, in a worn, used sort of way—like worried paper, or beach sand. Snorkmaiden plucked it from its place with the sort of reverence she imagined people reserved for fine china. It fell open in her hands, creased and stiff from its long storage.

It smelled just as she remembered, if a little dustier. On an impulse, she buried her snout in it, breathing in the scents of salt and damp campfire; she closed her eyes, and in an instant, she was no longer in the attic of her home.

She was rocking back and forth on a forest path, her vantage point oddly taller than it ought to be. The trees around her were thin, their greyish bark hung with patches of icy-green lichen and bulbous, curmudgeonly mushrooms. She was wet and cold, and tired enough to sleep for days—her cheek rested against something warm as she watched the passing trees, though she didn’t seem to be moving under her own power. Snork, walking for both of them, adjusted his passenger gently where she perched on his shoulders, perhaps thinking she was asleep. She balled the corners of the blanket tighter in her hands, feeling the dampened fabric squish coldly. It smelled of salt and ozone.

 _Look at me,_ she thought, staring down at the blanket with eyes filled to the brim with sudden tears. _Upset over a blanket. Some grown-up you are._

Once the memories started in earnest, they seemed to come in droves. Flashes of sand and rain and rocky paths, the sight of mountain trails disappearing into clouds. Crackling of fire. The squish of moss. Itching sleep in her eyes. Coffee and huddled warmth in cold places, the blanket wrapped around her like a shield. The taste of old bread, wrinkled berries and hunger. A creaking iron gate. A house with darkened windows and a long tongue of cobbled stone. Light through the bottom of a bedroom door. Paws on the edge of a cradle. Tobacco smoke and arguing and the soft edges of a blanket tucked beneath her head.

Alone in the attic, Snorkmaiden pulled the blanket to her chest and sniffled. _Home Things,_ the bin said. But that was a strange thing—Moominvalley was home. It had been for a long time. It was _home._

Wasn’t it?

With shaking knees, she climbed back down the ladder, still holding the blanket in one hand. She padded to her room and collapsed into her desk chair, feeling a familiar weight tie her to it like a chain—it was then, with an enormous feeling of inevitability that her eyes found the carved box.

 _I could stay here forever and never know for certain,_ she thought miserably.

She recalled the story Moominmamma had told her weeks before; how her own strange gift had opened for her when she left home. _I couldn’t do that,_ she thought, before another feeling rolled over her like thunder—a feeling so intrusive and roguish that she’d hardly noticed it sneaking up on her.

_Why not?_

She reached out and took the box, carefully, as though it would bite her. _Why not?_ She asked herself again, looking down at it. She was sure there was a reason, but her head was so full with the smell of the blanket that she could not be certain of a reason ever existing.

Snorkmaiden had never felt indecision like this before. It felt for all the world as if a crossroads had planted itself beneath her feet, each road sign pointing towards a different disappointment. Worse than any darkened path however, was the cold fear of knowing too well the shape of the signpost. Of staying put, right here in this chair until she grew a coat of dust so thick that no one would ever find her. With a start, she realized something that, in hindsight, seemed dreadfully obvious. A thought so mired in solitude and distraction that its familiarity came as a shock, sitting her bolt upright, clutching the blanket in wonder.

She was _homesick_.

The first thing she did was climb back up the attic ladder to grab the suitcase. Then, she filled it with things, clothes and food and a compass she’d seen amongst the attic clutter. Next was her white autumn cloak, whose pockets she filled with bread and beads and anything else that caught her eye as she rushed about. There was a fire burning under her now, a hot, galvanizing thing. She was out the door before it had the chance to blow out, suitcase clutched in one white-knuckled hand.

She’d missed this, she realized as she tucked the bundled blanket under her arm. She’d missed the feeling of knowing what to do and when to do it—it was the sort of certainty that you didn’t notice slipping away until it was gone. Its absence had bolted her to her desk for long enough, so long in fact that it occurred to her that she may never have truly felt it before.

The epiphany of it struck her giddy, electrifying as a bolt of lightning. Part of her wanted to stop and plan properly, but that part was trampled thoroughly by a frantic, ever-growing realization: if she stopped now, this sudden rush of boldness might desert her, and never return. She would spend the rest of her life at that desk, hardening in place like a drop of wax from an overused candle. She couldn’t stay, she just _knew_ she couldn’t.

She didn’t know how long she would be gone, and she wasn’t sure what she might need for the journey, so she had settled on bringing nearly everything. For a fleeting second, she thought about asking Snufkin what was best to bring on a trip, but cold fear brought her up short.

This feeling of momentum was simultaneously overpowering and fragile—the smallest glimpse of any of her friends right now might blow it out like a birthday candle. She wanted to hold it close to her chest for fear of losing the clarity it had brought her. If she let it blow out, she didn’t know if there would be anything left to replace it.

The suitcase slammed closed with a clatter. Almost as an afterthought, she threw her white autumn cloak over her shoulders, fastening it with nervous, shaking fingers. There was nothing for it now; she drew her window closed, pocketed the box from where it sat on the desk, and armed herself with her suitcase and walking stick.

 _I must look a tad foolish,_ she thought, not bothering to quell the grin that spread across her face as she raced back down the stairs. She was out the door and down the path before she thought to look back at the house her brother had built for them, so long ago now.

 _I’m really doing this,_ she thought giddily. The walking stick made satisfying thuds as it met the dirt of the path, her cloak billowing behind her, bright in the moonlight. She felt like a ghost, flitting between the trees as the path wound onwards.

Soon, Moominhouse loomed out of the sea of stars and treetops, and she slowed her gait for a moment. From the sounds of talking and laughter, her party was still in swing, and the thought nearly stopped her dead in her tracks—with a bit of shame and a moment of hesitation, she cut across a shallow track in the creek, emerging on the other side a little wetter for her efforts. It simply wouldn’t do to cross the bridge, in full view of everybody.

 _I’m sorry,_ she thought, stealing up the opposite bank like a thief in the night. _We’ll have to put off our hike tomorrow._

She cut through the woods, taking a path well-worn by their summer activities, a trip she could have made blindfolded. The familiarity of the woods, even at such a late hour renewed her confidence as she stepped out onto the road.

She took a moment to glance towards Moominhouse, the gesture feeling a tad more final than she’d intended. The cottage was a dark splotch through the rows of trees, its lawn lit gold and green by the hanging rows of lanterns Moominmamma had set out. She could see someone, Moominpappa, most like, going from lantern to lantern, blowing them out. The tables were still full, and Snorkmaiden could hear Little My’s reedy voice carrying toward her through the trees.

The feeling of domesticity almost pulled her back towards them. _Almost._ Her view of the party’s final moments looked like a painting, as picturesque a thing as she’d ever seen. She stared down the path, letting her eyes drift over the gentle glow of the remaining lanterns, over the steady, homey shape of Moominhouse, and the soft wooden slats of bridge that stood between them.

 _This won’t be so bad,_ she told herself, quelling a sudden feeling of guilt. _Surely, they won’t miss me so badly, even if I’m gone for quite some time._ The suitcase weighed on her enthusiasm, for more reasons than one—she didn’t want to leave, not really. After all, she had a family, here. Wasn’t that enough?

_Shouldn’t it be?_

Snorkmaiden sat with the thought as she watched Moomintroll help his mother with the clearing up; Snufkin, Sniff and Little My milled about the tables, pretending to do the same. The sight brought a fond smile to her face, and again she felt that pull which threatened to unseat her. The painting moved, Moomin turning on the porch, one arm stacked with dishes. Snufkin laughed in answer to something he’d said. She took one halting step towards them, feeling a little foolish.

Then, Moomin reached out, and took one of Snufkin’s hands in his.

The bottom dropped out from Snorkmaiden’s heart. All of a sudden, the painting didn’t seem quite so splendid. She stared, dumbfounded, as the last of the lanterns were blown out, and the tablecloths were folded. The night settled in around her like a shroud, leaving her clutching to her suitcase and walking stick as if they’d keep her from drifting away.

 _Oh,_ she thought, dazedly. _Right, then._

She turned from the painting in a daze and took a shaky step down the trail. One step turned into two, and then she was away, swallowed by the woods. The noises of Moominhouse faded quickly, and Snorkmaiden found herself grateful for the silent press of forest around her. The humming of night insects matched the dull buzz of her thoughts, and she walked onwards, wishing she hadn’t just been proven right.

_They won’t miss me so badly._

That was okay. She’d known they wouldn’t. Moomin didn’t need her, and the rest didn’t either. It was good, really, that she knew that now for truth. The pale streams of moonlight that illuminated the path in front of her wavered in her vision, and she realized she was crying.

She stepped over gnarled roots and well-worn stones with the care of someone who needed their mind somewhere else for a while. She swallowed down a hiccup and wove onwards, focussing on carrying her suitcase in a way that didn’t jostle it against her leg. She exhaled a long stream of silver breath in the night chill that was settling over the valley and walked onwards.

With every step, the weight of the box in her coat pocket grew heavier, bouncing rhythmically against her side. A sudden thought occurred to her, that Moominmamma’s own gift had only opened once she’d left home. She stopped for a moment to wipe at her eyes and plucked the thing out to look at it in the moonlight.

It was the same as it had ever been, mysterious and implacable and oddly heavier than she’d remembered. The dandelion carved on its top was the same as always, and she ran a hand over it, frowning. It was still closed, with nary a seam to be seen along its length.

Snorkmaiden sighed and returned it to her pocket, feeling a little defeated.

 _Maybe I won’t need it soon,_ she mused, and the thought breathed life into her. She didn’t yet know the shape of the feeling, or how a thing so very large could fit in her chest.

Maybe, the thought occurred to her, maybe by the time she returns she’ll know what shape she should be. What she is to them, and what she isn’t. How she could possibly _fit_ in the way she hadn’t in some time.

Her plan rose to her through the fog, and she fumbled for it—suddenly, the world made sense again. The road stretched out into the night, and a full moon watched a lone Snork depart from Moominvalley, cloaked and determined.

She was going home.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader,
> 
> This fic has been a long time coming, and if you are one of the people here after reading my last work, then thank you once again for gifting me your time and attention. I hope you'll stick around for the journey to come.


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